Covering Up the Truth and Other Things
by namewithheld
Summary: everything up to Requiem For a Third Grade Ashtray, then veers off into AU: Joan wonders why Adam won't show her his drawings


Title: Covering Up the Truth and Other Things

Author: Tote

Archive: ask first

Disclaimer: Don't own it, don't claim to, don't sue

Rating: PG-13?

Genre: angst/romance

A/N: R&R please or expect NO updates. Yes, I'm a whore for feedback, so sue me.

I watch him from the corner of my eye, as we sit beside each other on the floor of our kitchen for no particular reason, a pointless fantasy spinning in my mind's eye. It's the usual one, where he comes up behind me, kisses my neck (his mouth is soft and warm on my skin and sometimes, in the right mood, I can feel a sharp brush of his teeth) and says, in that low voice: I'm not with Iris anymore. I replay this imaginary moment again and again as I watch him bent over his notebook, his pencil making sharp little brushes against the paper.

I recognize the sound, he's shading and I'm not too far gone not to realize how sad it is that I know that. Maybe he's shading the underside of a neck, I muse sleepily, or the side of a nose. He's been doing faces for the past few days: I've caught glimpses of them on the inside of his chemistry binder before he covers them with his hand, coloring. It annoys me when does that.

First, because it means something's changed that being with Baby Voice has somehow made his art something just between the two of them.

Second, because I saw his stuff first, I saw the beauty in the twisted metal and bits of tin, so who is she to be art girl groupie, huh?

And third, well, third because… when that slight pink rises in his cheekbones I can't be annoyed or angry, because he's so cute when he blushes and then I'm sad instead of annoyed.

I don't do sad. Sullen, yes. Sad, no. I'm spoiled, not melancholy.

I'm spoiled because he used to belong to me and instead of relishing the sheer possession, the right to pull of his beanie and run fingers through his dark, wavy hair; I pulled away, got scared. Scared that I wasn't ready to hold someone else's heart in my hands, scared I'd break it and if I'm honest, that he'd break mine. Who asked for pure, smoldering love in high school? In high school, girls aren't waiting for Mr. Right, they want Mr. Wrong.

Girls in high school aren't supposed to get the one person in the world that knows every button to push, but doesn't. They're just supposed to dream about that kind of man while their skeevy boyfriends cheat on them with their best friends in backs of cars. So I was the one girl to get it and I threw it away, like the spoiled brat I am and now I'm being punished.

"Jane?" his voice is soft, just above a whisper but I'm startled anyway. He's closed his notebook and his body is angled toward mine, eyes gazing at my face with familiar but still wonderful watchfulness and I know he registers every emotion as it passes across my face. He's not moving but he's on red alert, he's ready to move toward me, to cater whatever emotional crisis I'm cooking up next. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah!" I exclaim, too loud and too quickly. More softly I add brightly: "Totally fine."

"You're crying." His voice is thick with regret, deepening like he might cry too, except he won't. It's like me crying was a personal attack on his soul.

I wipe the tears away with hands that shake; surprised I didn't feel them at all till he noticed them. Just another sign I'm insane, probably, so nothing to worry about. "Sorry, I just…I'm just—hey, why do you keep covering up your drawings, anyway?" I burst out and I know I'm being an irrational bitch as usual but I really want to know. I really, really, in some sicko masochistic way, want to hear him tell me he only likes to show stuff to Baby Voice now, that I'm a bubblehead who knows nothing about art.

Except he'll never say that. He'll just say something perfect and I'll cry in the shower later.

"That's why you're crying?" he asks, frowning as he wraps his mind around that, leaning slightly toward me.

"It's part of it," I reply truthfully.

"Well, I…" he breathes out, probably in disbelief that I'm this insane, hesitates and then makes a move to pick up the notebook and guilt washes over me like a tsunami.

"No!" I say, too loud again, "no, really, you don't have to show me if you only want to show Iris…"

He pauses briefly, giving me a small look of disbelief, then opens it onto the first page. It's me, with my chin on my hand, scowling. He turns to the next page and it's me again, with my head tilted backward and I'm laughing. My neck, my nose. Around it, there are close-ups of my eyes, of my mouth, a silhouette of my body, leaning against something. He keeps paging but much faster and I only catch glimpses of smiling me's and crying me's and careful sketches of my eyebrows when they knit together in confusion or irritation.

"I don't show them to Iris."

I look from the notebook's pages to his serious face. He avoids my eyes. I touch my cheek and brush away the lone tear before he notices. And then—though I know with such razor-sharp certainty that this is something I shouldn't do—I lean forward and press my lips to his cheek, kissing it three times in a row. He doesn't move but I see his knuckles go white as his hands grip the notebook more tightly. I slide my mouth, never breaking contact from his skin, till I reach his mouth and I kiss it hard, ignoring all the sins I'm committing, feeling such a high when he returns my kiss and almost devours me in his eagerness. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

When I've stopped breathing, I break away from him but I don't look away. His eyes aren't wide with shock, like I expected, or narrowed with disapproval. They've gone darker and hotter with a desire I know is mirrored in mine. I promised myself ten seconds ago I would never do it again and I break it without shame or hesitation, I grab his arm as I lean in again, to kiss those lips—

"Adam," I murmur, pulling back in surprise, "you're shaking."

He grabs hold of me so suddenly I yelp in surprise and then he takes me into his arms, kissing me without opening his mouth at all, just touching his lips to mine. He lets go of me just as abruptly, lets me fall back against the hardwood floor of the kitchen and gets to his feet. I stare up in confusion as his shadow falls over me.

"I'm with Iris," he tells me, and his tone isn't accusing or indignant, no, it's exasperated and tired and so filled with regret that it makes tears shine in his eyes. But I know he won't cry, because he's stronger than me, than I'll ever be.

"I know," I whisper. I don't get up.

He walks out, out of the kitchen and into the hall where I listen to his footsteps echo in the harsh stillness. The door doesn't slam; it closes with a neat click.

I bury my head in my hands and I break down crying, 'cause I'm not strong at all.


End file.
